


As Lovers Can

by insunshine, sinuous_curve



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-06
Updated: 2010-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-09 22:53:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/pseuds/insunshine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinuous_curve/pseuds/sinuous_curve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the morning there are scones and coffee, a note on the pillow next to Ryan in Spencer's ridiculous doctor's handwriting, and his laptop on his lap, whirring happily and plugged into the wall. These are all things Spencer would have done on a regular morning, but it feels different now, weighted by something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Lovers Can

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by wordsalone

The running joke among their friends is that Ryan is Spencer's kept boy. Which isn't true in the slightest, of course; Spencer just happens to work twelve hour shifts that coincide perfectly with Ryan working none (he's a writer, for Christ's sake, what kind of respectable author works nine to five? It's not natural).

Most of the time they meet in the middle, in the city, eating with their hands laced inconspicuously across the table, then go home and fuck on every available surface until Spencer ends up braced on the piano bench in the living room, panting that there's no possible way they're not going to end up sprawled everywhere without breaking something vital.

Ryan kisses hard enough to leave Spencer's lips bright red and spit slicked, cants his hips in just the right way, and words die away to babbles and moans, a litany of more.

Then, of course, there are the days when Ryan's patience fails him and he ends up sitting in one of the exam rooms in a tee shirt and fingerless gloves against the Boston cold, scarves looped around his neck. It's cheating, a little, batting his eyes at William the secretary, but Ryan has never had illusions of deep morality and, after four years, it's almost an expectation.

Spencer comes in with a wry smile playing across his lips. "And what can I do for you today?"

"Doctor," Ryan says, voice as flat as ever as he looks at Spencer over the frames of his glasses. "Doctor, I think I sprained something. Oh, it hurts. It hurts something fierce."

His cords are already unbuttoned, because it's impossible to live with Spencer for as long as he has without some of his practicality rubbing off, and the longer it takes, the higher the chances of Gabe waltzing in. And Gabe, unlike any other normal human being, won't back away blushing, he'll whip out his camera phone and make threats about youporn submissions.

"One of these days," Spencer says, getting on his knees where he looks so damn pretty, "William is going to stop letting you in the back during working hours."

Ryan braces himself on the table edge and laces his fingers in Spencer's hair. It's soft against his calluses and Ryan tugs experimentally, just hard enough to feel resistance the moment when Spencer's body starts to thrum with tension. "I doubt that. The longer the patients are in the waiting room, the longer William has to try and seduce them."

Spencer eases the zipper down and shimmies Ryan's pants and boxers off, blowing out against his pelvis in hot little bursts of air that have Ryan shivering, despite the relative warmth of the room.

There aren't many benefits Ryan will cop to that come from having been with someone old enough to be out of college for almost ten years, but an almost too intimate knowledge of Ryan's body ticks ranks high on that short list. Spencer nips at his hipbones (he's always had a thing for sharp objects) and pulls back long enough to make a point of licking his lips.

"Tease," Ryan exhales.

Spencer smiles, settles his hands on the dip of Ryan's side and opens his mouth.

They've been doing this long enough that Ryan knows all of Spencer's tricks; or at least he thinks he does. He leans back against the exam table, palms pressed against the cool metal, and it's a lot of sensation, Spencer's hot, hot mouth and the coolness of the metal.

Ryan can't complain.

"Shift your hips a little," Spencer mumbles, pulling off Ryan's dick for just a second. Ryan has no shame, it's something that got him through college and most of his twenties, something he's pretty sure actually got him Spencer in the first place.

Ryan has no shame, so when he whines, low in his throat, at the loss of Spencer's heat from around him, all it does is earn him a flick to the thigh and a chuckle against his skin.

"D'you think you could -- " Spencer's breaths come fast, Ryan can feel them getting shallower and shallower, he grinds his hips down a little, and it's a cheap shot, he knows it is, but he'll pretty much do anything to get Spencer's eyes like that, all pupil, completely blown. "Do you think you could balance your feet against the stool?" A laugh that Ryan hadn't been expecting bursts from his throat, but he nods, because yeah, yeah he can. It'll be a strain, but he can do it.

Spencer grins at him, and there's something about it, something about the way he looks predatory that makes Ryan's pulse flutter.

"Yeah," Ryan grits the word out, and his feet are propped around Spencer, settling on either side of the metal stool.

Spencer grins at him again, mouth curved up in something just this side of mischievous and sucks a finger into his mouth. Ryan doesn't really think about it, because Spencer sticking anything in his mouth is the hottest fucking thing ever.

He says, "Can you hoist yourself up?" Ryan blinks, but he nods, because Spencer's mouth is really close to his dick again, and he may be pushing thirty-three, but Spencer's head-giving skills have aged like cheese or fine wine, they've gotten so, so much better with age.

Spencer smirks up at him, pressing his mouth against Ryan's thigh, flicking his tongue out. When Ryan throws his head back and barely holds in a moan, he can feel Spencer's grin against his skin. When Spencer's tongue swirls around the head, Ryan is practically mindless and they've barely even started. He bucks up, balancing himself on his palms and the very tips of toes on the stool and then the tip of a finger Ryan hadn't even realized Spencer had slid back there starts to press against his ass.

Ryan bucks against Spencer's mouth, and practically comes everywhere.

Spencer swallows most of it.

"What," Ryan mumbles breathlessly, wiping at his own mouth. "What the hell was that, Spencer." He should make it a question, it's only fair, but he doesn't, and Jesus, Spencer's moved his mouth away, Spencer's licking his lips, still shiny with Ryan's fucking come, but he hasn't moved his finger.

"Did you like it?" Spencer's surging up, pressing the pad of his finger against the pucker to Ryan's ass, quick and harsh, before it's gone, and he's crushing their mouths together.

Ryan can taste himself on Spencer's mouth.

"I don't like dick," he says, and if Spencer's lips quirk down just slightly, well, Ryan can pretend he didn't notice. It's been serving him pretty well for the past seven years.

"That wasn't dick," Spencer mumbles, leaning against his mouth for just a second more before he's straightening his coat and pulling away. "That was a finger."

Ryan rolls his eyes and tries not to stare at Spencer's mouth, lip bitten and red, red, red. He drags Ryan up, bats his hands away when Ryan tries to fasten his own pants and kisses him again once they're standing like he can't help it.

"You taste good," Ryan mumbles before he can stop himself, and Spencer snorts. "I taste like you," he mutters, and he doesn't sound disgruntled, exactly, he sounds resigned.

Ryan doesn't pause to think about what that means, and then they're out into the hallway, all cool champagne colored rugs, pale walls and an assistant who's leaning against the information desk like he's attached to it.

"Spencer," Gabe says, eying him appraisingly. Ryan would be jealous, shit, Ryan is, but he's sated and boneless and it doesn't really matter if Gabe's staring at Ryan's boyfriend like he's something tasty and delicious, because at the end of the day, Spencer's coming home to him. "Or should I call you Dr. Smith?"

"You should get behind the desk and finish checking people in," Spencer says, and he sounds so composed. Ryan's really glad he doesn't have to talk.

Gabe rolls his eyes, making a kissy face in Spencer's direction, and that would have Ryan growling if he weren't trying not to giggle.

"What," Spencer asks, conspiratorially, out of the corner of his mouth, looking like a caricature of himself. Ryan wants to kiss him, and would, if there weren't so many people around. "Do I have something on my face?"

He turns to face Ryan full, and all Ryan sees is his eyes, his smile, his messy hair. His chin is shining a little more than usual, a bright spot on it, and Ryan is completely past blushing, but if he were so inclined, his cheeks would be the color of tomatoes.

"You, uh. There's." He flails a hand around, but he's pretty sure Spencer doesn't follow. "You have come on your chin," he whispers, and tries his hardest not to boggle when Spencer just runs his fingers over the spot Ryan had been pointing to and sucks them into his mouth.

"Tasty," he says, smirking.

Ryan is really lucky his boyfriend is a physician. If he ever blacks out, at least he'll be in the right place.

*

Ryan could take the subway home, but he chooses to walk, hands shoved down deep in his pockets. It's only September and the last remnants of summer are still clinging stubbornly to the city, so he's not quite cold once he gets moving. He could afford a car if he wanted, but Ryan barely managed to pass his driver's test in the suburbs of Las Vegas, the old roads of Boston are less than ideal and hell if he's going to die in the process of taking out the front wall of some historical monument.

Spencer offered once, only half joking, to try and fit a driver into their budget, but Ryan suspects that would require firing the lady who cleans their apartment three times a week and moving into a sketchy neighborhood. Ryan can walk, thank you.

He's just begun to shiver when he reaches their building, waving at the doorman as he slides through the door and heads to the elevator. It's old and creaky and breaks down more than is reasonable, given what they fork over monthly for their seventh floor place, but it's thankfully working and Ryan leans against the wall for the ride up.

His thoughts drift over to Spencer, not that there's anything all that unusual in that, but they end up circling around Spencer's fingers and Ryan's not going to have any of that.

The elevator dings at precisely the right time and Ryan shuffles into the hallway. The only downside of actually managing to make his career as an author is that his imagination, never on the flat side, has a tendency to become entirely too fucking active over shit that is not a word doc on his computer. It's not a big deal if he doesn't make it a big deal and he's not going to make it a big deal, so there is no big deal.

It might not be the soundest of logic, but it works as Ryan hunts through his pockets for his keys. Unnecessarily, it turns out, because the door is already unlocked; Ryan pushes it open and is entirely unsurprised to find Brendon sprawled out on their couch with a bottle of wine and a pair of long stemmed glasses on the coffee table, staring at the TV.

"What are you doing here?"

Brendon looks up and his eyes are still focused, which is always a bonus. "Hey. I fucking hate Pete and I needed somewhere to go."

Ryan rolls his eyes.

Brendon has been dating Pete on and off, extreme emphasis on the on and the off, since before Spencer and Ryan got together. Ryan doesn't understand their relationship, he doubts they understand their relationship, but it involves never ending, constantly repeating cycles of hot periods where they can't keep their hands off each other, domestic periods where they buy curtains and sheets ad nauseam and look at houses, and cold periods where they can't be in the same room for ten minutes without trying to kill each other.

During most cold periods, Brendon ends up on their couch, complaining to Ryan while they drink a bottle of wine and watch old black and white movies.

Ryan peels off his gloves and tosses them on top of the entertainment center, then crosses the living room and flops down next to Brendon. "What did he do this time?"

Brendon refills his glass and pours into Ryan's, hands it over and sinks back down with a long and tragically defeated sigh. "Pete Wentz is an asshole and an idiot and I don't know why I have wasted so many years of my precious youth on his lame self."

"Your life is a constant trial," Ryan says in a deadpan.

"You are an asshole too, Ryan Ross," Brendon counters without heat.

"Yeah." Ryan hunts through the cushions to find the remote. "Are you sleeping on the couch tonight?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to watch Casablanca or Babes in Arms?"

"Casablanca."

They watch in companionable silence until Spencer gets home and end up switching over to some prime time medical drama, because watching Spencer scoff and yell at the actors for utter medical incompetence will never stop being funny.

Spencer curls his fingers around Ryan's neck and he doesn't think about it.

*

Brendon falls asleep in the middle of the first musical number in Babes in Arms, with Judy Garland's eyes huge and luminous, staring straight out of them.

"He looks really young like that," Spencer says, and it's what Spencer always says, and they've had this routine for as long as Ryan can remember, probably longer than that.

"He's older than you, Spence."

Spencer makes a noise low in his throat and mumbles something like, "He needs more taking care of than I do," and Ryan blinks, because sometimes, Spencer is really, unapologetically sweet, and it makes something warm course through Ryan's chest.

He's really close to grinning at Spencer stupidly, and he'd never hear the end of that, so he tries and tramps it down, says instead, "So what was that, today?"

They're getting ready for bed, Spencer in the wife beater he always wears under his collared shirts and a soft pair of black sweatpants, hair mussed. He raises a brow, and Ryan's glad they don't have central lighting in their bedroom. The lamp is casting a yellow glow over everything, and if Spencer's grinning, at least Ryan can pretend he doesn't see it.

"What was what?" Spencer asks, and Ryan wants to roll his eyes, but Spencer would just pretend he hadn't seen. Ryan huffs, watching as Spencer slides into bed, waiting a moment and turning out the lamp before sliding in alongside him.

"You," Spencer, typically, sleeps flat on his back with Ryan sprawled against his chest, listening to his heart beat, and while before him, Ryan hadn't been much for cuddling, he can't sleep any other way now. Ryan tries to speak again, tries to air his grievances, but Spencer's running his fingers through the shorthairs at Ryan's nape, and all that comes out when he opens his mouth are tiny little gasps.

"I, what, Ry?" Spencer is smirking. Their room is dark, but Ryan isn't new to this game. Ryan knows all of Spencer's quirks, Ryan knows when Spencer is laughing at him, dammit.

"I don't like dick." Ryan mutters, and he should move away, this conversation would be so much more effective if weren't touching, if the lights were on and they were staring into each other's eyes, and Ryan could repeat the words he's been saying to Spencer since their first date.

"You're telling me this like I don't know," He sounds sleepy, which makes sense, since he's been up since five, yesterday morning, but this conversation is important, and Ryan's aversion to dick has never bothered Spencer before.

"You just. It doesn't bug me okay, and it's not like it felt good -- "

Spencer snorts. "If you say so."

"It didn't."

Spencer leans down, contorts himself in some way that allows him to press his lips to the top of Ryan's head while not dislodging Ryan from his chest.

Ryan is pretty sure that Spencer is magic.

*

Ryan's alone in bed when he wakes up, but the crooned tribute to Queen filtering through the open bedroom door from the kitchen sure as hell isn't Spencer. He stifles a yawn and rolls out of bed, mentally sacrificing a day of working on the exposition dump chapter in his latest novel to Brendon's continued mental health and well-being.

Brendon's standing at the kitchen counter in his boxers and one of Spencer's tee shirts. "I made coffee and bagels, but Spencer ate yours."

Rolling his eyes (Spencer is seriously the worst fucking food thief and one of these days Ryan's going to lace all the leftovers with Ex-Lax and then see how he likes it then) and slides onto one of the counter stools. Brendon presses a mug into his hand, a chipped thing he's owned since college, and Ryan inhales with a contented little sigh. Brendon might have the interpersonal relationship skills of a toddler, but he makes really good coffee.

"So, dear," Brendon chirps, leaning over and batting his eyelashes. "How did my muffin sleep?"

Ryan rolls his eyes. "Just swell, honeypot."

Brendon laughs and a rakes a hand through his hair. "Awesome. So, you're totally up to sneaking over to Pete's place with me and commandeering my shit, right?"

Ryan groans. "Brendon, I'm asking you, as a friend, give it a week to see if you've made up before you make me haul that fucking pull out couch down three flights of stairs. I could barely do it when it was twenty and it's not getting any easier."

"Fine, fine," Brendon sighs dramatically. "Fuck. I bet he's fucking someone on my couch right now."

"Right, because in the past ten years Pete's slept with anyone other than you." Ryan knows. Pete, for some inexplicable reason, thinks it's a good idea to call Ryan when he needs to commiserate about how irrational Brendon is. Which sure, Ryan more than anyone knows, but he doesn't want to hear about it coming from Pete. Ryan had no desire to ever know that much about their sexual practices.

"My ass is just that fabulous."

It's an almost too perfect segue.

Ryan circles his hands around his mug and stares into the drink, chewing on the corner of his lip. Brendon's back to singing, rinsing out his cup to the strains of Fat Bottomed Girls.

"So," Ryan says, casually as he can. "You bottom, right?"

Brendon drops the mug with a clatter in the stainless steel sink. "I. I. What?"

"You bottom, right?" Ryan repeats, feeling heat spread across his cheeks. Now he's stuck at twelve where sex is something to blush and stammer over. He's fucking sexually liberated and shit, it's just Brendon.

"I do," Brendon says with an inadvertent nervous giggle.

Ryan drums his fingers on the side of the mug. There's no good way to ask about taking it up the ass without inviting all kinds of irritating questions about his issues with sexuality and masculinity and all that bull. Issues he doesn't particularly have, for the record. He just tried it once, found it that it fucking hurt, and decided that fucking was the way to go.

"Why?" Ryan asks, cocking his head to the side. "Why bottom?"

"I don't know." Brendon rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "Because it'd be a waste of an awesome ass if I didn't?"

"Bren, seriously. I'm curious."

Brendon huffs out a laugh and starts playing with the short hairs on the back of his neck. "Jesus, Ryan, I don't know. It feels good? Which, I've always been told is the point of sex. I like having Pe-- someone inside me. Being open for them? Full. It's nice."

The explanation comes with more hand waving and demonstrative gestures than Ryan thinks is entirely necessary (if Pete is actually that big around, Ryan's going to hide cameras in their bedroom and market the tapes as porn under King Kong Dong).

Ryan shakes his head. "I don't get it."

Brendon laughs and ruffles his hair, which Ryan only allows because it's before noon and he hasn't had much success yet at drinking his coffee. "Lucky for you Spencer does."

Right.

Ryan chugs his mug.

*

On Monday, Spencer loses a patient.

He says it's not a big deal, but Ryan doesn't believe him. He says -- well, actually all he says is, "I'm going to bed, Ry. I'll talk to you in the morning."

Ryan's not particularly good at comfort, but he logs off his computer, shucks his pants and tee shirt, and climbs into bed with Spencer, even though little spurts of light are peeking in through where the curtains don't precisely meet in the middle.

"What," Spencer says deadpan, "Is it morning already?" Ryan's relieved to see that he isn't crying. He's not sure how he could have handled that.

"Just wanted to check on you," Ryan mutters, tucking his face against Spencer's neck, sliding his fingers down to the bare skin of Spencer's hip and squeezing.

"Aw," Spencer said, and his going for sarcasm, but his actions fail even though his words don't, and he drags Ryan closer, pressing his lips to Ryan's temple. "Ryan Ross, you love me."

Ryan snorts. "It's possible." He doesn't move, enjoying the warm heat of Spencer spread around him. That's when Spencer starts to shake, shoulders heaving, and he's not crying, he's not, but he holds on tightly, and Ryan lets him.

They won't talk about it tomorrow, but Ryan can feel Spencer's tears against his neck, can feel how Spencer hasn't stopped shaking, not even a little, and he moves back, just a little, just to kiss at the crease between his brows, the ridge of his cheek bone.

"Shouldn't have okayed him for surgery," Spencer whispers, voice cutting through their little cocoon. Ryan hadn't forgotten, not really, but it hadn't been at the forefront of his mind, taking care of Spencer was.

"You're a good doctor, Spence," he whispers, and Spencer tries to chuckle, but it's too watery by half. He leans forward, balancing on his palms, and presses their mouths together.

Spencer's mouth is slack at first, but Ryan doesn't know how else to comfort him, so he keeps going, keeps pushing, licking inside his mouth.

He moans, just slightly, high in his throat and Ryan pulls back a little to nip at the skin there. "You're beautiful," he whispers, and Spencer does chuckle then, but his eyes are glazed over, and he moans again when Ryan presses his thumbs against his hips.

"Ryan, I want," he says, flexing his hips up, and his eyes are wild, skin flushed pink.

Ryan doesn't need to be told twice.

*

Spencer spreads out on his back against the tangle of sheets on the bed that were never made from the night before. Ryan settles on his hips, knees tucked in close against Spencer's sides. He's lovely like this, though Ryan would never use that particular word aloud, with his eyes closed and hectic red flush spreading down his neck across his shoulders and chest.

Ryan rolls his hips, just a little, and Spencer makes a noise deep in the back of his throat, fingers clenching into fists around the blankets.

They've known each other for more years than Ryan cares to think about, and in that time Spencer has only ever asked for what he wants, much less admitted what he needs, a handful of times. It's fine, really, Ryan has learned to read between the lines and, the thing is, Ryan likes taking care of him.

It sounds almost creepy when he says it out loud, which is why he doesn't, but the sentiment remains true.

"Love you," Ryan says, dragging blunted nails across Spencer's chest and smiling at the shudder. "Spencer."

Spencer's eyes open a fraction and he smiles, only the littlest bit shattered at the corners. "Love you too, Ry."

Ryan fucks Spencer, easy and loose, with Spencer's legs hooked over his shoulders.

Back when they were in college and still awed that they were allowed to touch each other at all, they tended to be frantic and filthy, on the kitchen table and in bathroom stalls, needing the touch of each others' skin almost constantly. Now they're older, much as Ryan hates to admit it, and more settled in their bones. The awe isn't gone, but it now comes with an ease.

Spencer isn't going anywhere.

It took Ryan a long time to believe that.

Afterward, Spencer gathers Ryan close (he always gets just a little more clingy after a bad day) and Ryan certainly isn't going to complain about getting to lay with his head on Spencer's chest, legs tangled together. Spencer threads his fingers in Ryan's hair. "Thank you," he says.

Ryan huffs out a laugh. "Not like it was a chore, dumbass."

"For putting up my with my bullshit." Spencer's voice has taken on the low quality it gets right before he falls asleep.

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

*

Ryan wakes up the next morning with a note on his pillow from Spencer complete with a smiley face and a daisy. His boyfriend is such a fucking doofus.

Brendon's not in the kitchen when he gets there, which isn't that surprising, considering Brendon doesn't actually live with them.

He's left a note, but it's less sloppy than Spencer's was. It's funny, how it's not what Ryan would have expected, Brendon's matter-of-fact words and Spencer's sloping, loopy scrawl.

The phone in the kitchen rings, and Spencer was the one who'd insisted they install a landline, even though landlines were for adults and yuppies. Ryan tries really hard not to think of himself as an adult or a yuppie.

Most of the time he's successful.

"Yeah," he says, by way of answering, because he's not going to be polite on a land line.

"RYAN ROSS!" Ryan blinks down at the phone. Brendon's exuberance is kind of intimidating in the morning. Ryan couldn't manage to be that happy on a really good day.

"Hey, Bren. Where are you? I made coffee."

"I have coffee at home, Ryan Ross." Ryan blinks, because he gets it, Brendon is back at home, which means Brendon is back with Pete.

Ryan likes Pete, he does, but for the shocking amount of times he and Brendon have broken up, there has to be some basis for Brendon's panic.

"Right, well." Ryan swallows, throat tight. "That's awesome, Bren."

"I know, right?"

Ryan hangs up and slides across the breakfast bar, firing up his laptop.

Tonight is a late night for Spencer and with Brendon gone, the apartment is huge and lonely. He forgets, sometimes, that writing is a solitary business, when even the characters in his head won't come out and talk to him.

Out loud, he mutters, "Fuck," wincing before realizing there's no one around to admonish him. "Fuck," he says again.

*

It takes the better part of four hours, six cups of coffee, and two cigarette breaks on the balcony before Ryan manages to go tripping into the mindset of his newest novel, but he does. It's different from his other works, this post apocalyptic thing about the survivors of a plague. His editor keeps smiling frantically, but Ryan personally thinks it's his best work yet.

He doesn't hear the front door unlock and open and Spencer's arms sliding around his shoulders have him jumping so high he almost dumps his laptop on the floor. "Jesus motherfucking Christ almighty."

Spencer chuckles in his ear. "Spence is good."

Were Ryan slightly less wrung out and had the day been a little less lonely, he would probably somehow twist his arm into cuffing Spencer on the back of the head. As it is, he somehow finds his head tipped back onto Spencer's shoulder. "Asshole."

"How was your day, dear?"

"Peachy keen." Ryan glances at the clock and probably isn't as surprised as he should be to see that it's after eleven. He's been writing for the better part of six hours and his back is letting him know that loud and clear. "Brendon made up with Pete."

Spencer folds himself down onto the couch, Ryan settled in the bracket of his thighs. "Was there ever really any question?"

"One of these days they're going to actually, literally fucking break up and Brendon will move into our living room and what will we do then?"

"Love him." Spencer kisses Ryan's temple. "And squish him." His cheek. "And call him our own."

"I never wanted a pet," Ryan groans and Spencer nips at his earlobe. "And you're in a remarkably good mood, considering."

Spencer chuckles again, the same low sound that vibrates through Ryan's back and down his nerves. He gets a hand around Ryan's laptop and shifts it over the coffee table and Ryan distantly hopes he remembered to hit save or he's going to have to recreate two fairly nice paragraphs. Spencer sucks a kiss to the juncture of his neck and Ryan decides he really doesn't care.

"I've been thinking." Spencer skims his palms over Ryan's chest, heat radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt to his skin.

"Mm." Ryan really, really fucking loves his boyfriend. "'Bout what?"

Spencer's mouth curves into a smile that Ryan can feel against his neck, hands sliding along the curve of his waist, down the outside of his thighs and up the inside. "Things."

"Thank you for that. Really."

"Welcome."

Spencer trails the tips of his fingers along the waistband, nuzzling his face into Ryan's neck. Once upon a time, Ryan was totally fucking stone against something as simple as pointed touch. Then he met Spencer and Spencer has some kind of freaky fucking mind control. Though, really, Ryan's not complaining. "Tell me what you're thinking."

"That day in the exam room."

The funny thing is, Ryan can call up at least half a dozen different memorable incidents in the exam room without trying hard.

"Which one?"

A kiss turns into a bite and Ryan shudders. "The most recent one."

Tension floods back into Ryan's shoulders and Spencer stops. "Why?"

There's a long moment of Spencer's breath brushing against the heated skin of Ryan's neck, hands caught easily on his waist. "I was thinking about a repeat performance." His voice is carefully modulated and, were he talking to anyone but Ryan, he'd probably be able to get away with that as normal.

"I pass," Ryan says, sliding away from Spencer's hands, up off the couch and into the bathroom.

He is, in fact, the worst fucking boyfriend in the world.

*

Spencer doesn't try to talk to him about it. Spencer doesn't sulk, he doesn't throw things. When Ryan finally drags his ass out of the bathroom, with freshly brushed teeth and a clear face, the door to their bedroom isn't even locked, not that he'd honestly expected it to be.

It's dark, when he pushes in, trying his hardest to be quiet, but failing sort of miserably. Their door creaks, something they've always said they were going to fix, but never really got around it. It's not exactly conducive to letting him sneak into bed.

"I'm awake, you know," The room is dark, the reading lamp isn't even on, which means Spencer's just been sitting there, as long as Ryan was in the bathroom, just sitting and waiting for him to come and deal with their issues.

Ryan's pretty sure all of 'their' issues? Are his issues. Shit.

"You know, this is kind of creepy," he mutters, trying to make a joke. He's rewarded with the snort he can hear Spencer try to stifle, and he almost smiles. It's not like Spencer can see him anyway.

"Ryan Ross," he says. "Did you really expect me to make you sleep out on the couch?" Ryan hadn't. Ryan knows Spencer.

"You should've," he mumbles, dropping his sweats into a pile at his feet, pulling back the blanket and dropping onto the bed beside Spencer. "I suck sometimes," he mumbles, rolling until he can mash his face against Spencer's shoulder.

Spencer snorts. "Only when it's my dick," and then, "Close your eyes and go to sleep, Ross. I shouldn't have pushed you."

Ryan's warm now that he's surrounded by Spencer's heat, and he'd been drifting, slowly, but he snaps his eyes open and he's not drifting anymore.

"Spence," he says, and he starts to pull away, or tries to, but Spencer's arms have a vice grip around his sides now that he's in the bed, and no matter how much Ryan wriggles, Spencer's not letting him go. It would be awesome, it is awesome, except for how it isn't. "Spence, it wasn't your fault."

Spencer lets him go.

"I pushed you. I didn't mean to push you, Ryan." He sounds so earnest, and even though Ryan can't see him, he can tell what his eyes look like, big and wide, pleading with Ryan to understand.

Ryan understands. That's the problem.

"Spence, I'm not." He stops, because he has to, because he doesn't want what Spencer is offering, he doesn't, but Spencer isn't wrong to want it. It's not his fault he got involved with Ryan. It's not his fault he has a really nice, perfectly serviceable dick. It makes sense that he'd want to use it once in a while. "You should. I mean. Your dick is really pretty."

Ryan can feel Spencer blink.

He flicks the light on.

*

"Pretty?"

Ryan blushes hard, heat spreading from his cheeks onto his neck and shoulders. "Yes. No."

Spencer, leaning against the pillows piled against the headboard, skin of his chest cast in a golden glow from the light of the lamp, stares. Ryan's eyes roam over his face, finally settling on the corner of his mouth. The twitching corner of his mouth.

"You're laughing at me." Ryan grabs a stray pillow tucked between them and throws it at Spencer's face as hard as he can, rolling on his side and yanking his knees up to his chin. Spencer, for all that he is probably something pretty close to the love of Ryan's life (if he believed in something so cliched and Hallmark) can sometimes be an asshole.

"Hey." Spencer shifts over and curls a hand around Ryan's shoulder. "You said my dick is pretty, what was I supposed to do? Stop pouting and fucking talk to me, Ross."

Reluctantly, Ryan rolls onto his back and shoots Spencer a glare. He doesn't seem all that phased, settling with one elbow on either side of Ryan, chests pressed together. Ryan lets out a highly unintentional soft sound of contentment. Spencer is warm.

Spencer leans down and brushes his nose against the hollow of Ryan's throat. "You're like a cat sometimes, I swear."

"Meow."

"Very funny." Spencer presses a kiss to Ryan's collarbone and settled back. "So, are you going to tell me what the hell's going on in your head? I'm pretty good at reading you Ry, but we've ventured into some obscure dialect of you I never picked up."

"It's nothing." Ryan tries to roll his shoulders in a shrug and ends up only squirming. "It's fine. Just. Whatever. Your fingers."

Spencer waggles said appendages, brushing the tips against Ryan's ribs. His chest hitches in a bark of laughter. "Stop that."

"Sorry. What about my fingers? And, I'm assuming, by extension my pretty dick."

Ryan thinks it's funny, in the worst way possible, that the published and lauded author of their relationship would be the one resorting to awkward hand gesture and inarticulate noises. Fucking Spencer and his stupid fingers and his dick (which is pretty, fuck anyone who thinks differently) and, most of all, fuck himself being an idiot with issues.

"I don't bottom," Ryan says.

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

"Shut up. I don't bottom. You do. That's worked really well for the entirety of our relationship." It has. It's worked so brilliantly.

"But?"

Ryan shifts against the sheets and wishes like hell that Spencer's eyes didn't look so bright blue and earnest, that his fingers weren't so stupidly long, that his motherfucking dick wasn't so pretty. Ryan likes the status quo, there's a comfort in that, and routine has always worked for him. Even so, even so.

"Your dick is pretty and your stupid fingers." Ryan gropes for the words. They don't come. "Fuck it."

Spencer, of course, chuckles again, leans down and kisses him. "You're an idiot."

It's funny that it sounds like I love you.

*

Spencer leaves it alone. Ryan still stops by the office on Wednesdays, still lets Spencer blow him (and returns the favor, because whatever, he's always liked sucking dick, and sucking Spencer's is a fucking privilege), but Spencer doesn't push him.

Ryan doesn't want Spencer to push him. He's perfectly content to continue being the toppiest top to ever top. He likes it, he likes Spencer spread out and wanting beneath him, likes being able to do that to him.

He just, wonders.

It's a Saturday, and Spencer's done with his clinic duties for the week, doesn't have any patients for over twenty-four hours and both their pagers are turned off (although the only person who ever pages Ryan is Brendon, and that's generally when he's lecturing and isn't picking up his phone), and Spencer's tracing lazy fingers across Ryan's stomach, pressing sloppy kisses against the underside of his chin.

"You're really fucking pretty, Ross," he mumbles, voice rumbling. Ryan rolls his eyes and he wants to move away, their bodies are starting to stick together, sweat and come and desire slicking their skin, connecting them in more than just emotion.

"You're prettier," he mumbles, tightening his arms around Spencer's sides. Spencer is the best cuddle buddy ever, and Ryan starts to sink into sleep as Spencer presses his lips to Ryan's forehead. "Love you, Spence," he mumbles, and Spencer stiffens around him.

They've been together for seven years in August. They may not say it much, but Ryan's pretty sure he's loved Spencer since the first time he opened his mouth, if not the first time they saw each other.

"What," he mumbles, pulling away from Spencer's skin, and wincing because of the mess between them and how much it hurts to pull away. "It's not like you don't fucking know, Spencer."

Spencer's just staring at him, eyes clear and blue, considering. "Do you ever think about marriage?" He asks, and Ryan has to lay back down because the room is starting to spin.

"What," he asks again, unable to keep the flatness from his voice. "Marriage, babies, a white picket fence, a collie and a van?"

"Ryan Ross, soccer mom," Spencer says, and he's totally smirking, even though it's not funny. Ryan has such a much better haircut than a soccer mom.

"Since I'm pretty sure neither of us can get pregnant," he starts, pinching the bridge of his nose when Spencer just smirks at him. "We don't know that. The last time you took it up the ass you were fifteen."

Ryan blushes, and then tells himself he's not blushing. "I never thought about it, Spence. I don't really see myself being with someone physically capable of producing squealing brats, and vans make me sneeze." Spencer smirks at him again.

"Okay," he says, opening his arms, and making motions for Ryan to snuggle back down against him. Ryan resists for as long as possible (less than a minute, by his estimation, even less than that in Spencer's, if the twinkle in his eyes has anything to say about it) and then collapses down, fitting his head right under Spencer's chin. "I love you too, Ryan," he whispers when Ryan's got his eyes closed, breaths coming out evenly.

Ryan's pretty sure he wasn't supposed to hear it, he resists the urge to smile.

*

Brendon calls Monday morning. "I'm at the Starbucks on the corner. Come have coffee with me."

Ryan isn't actually writing. He's got a notebook open on his knees and he's fucking around with character names, arranging and rearranging letters. He's at a crossroad in the latest book and he's debating whether to take the safer plot route that he knows he can work with, or veer into completely fucked up land and hope that it works.

"I'll be there in two minutes."

The sky is heavy with black clouds and Ryan grabs his pea coat before he heads out the door and to the elevator. It's spattering a little as he walks, leaving flecks of darker gray on the pavement and Ryan pulls up his collar, hands tucked into his pockets.

Brendon's sitting in an armchair in the corner when Ryan pushes in, cross-legged, holding a lidless cup that's letting off a little cloud of steam. "Ryan, hey. I got you black. Like your soul."

Ryan snorts because Brendon is sometimes a dumbass and sometimes over the top, but he's also a good guy and Ryan doesn't hate spending time with him; despite the fact that Spencer keeps insisting Brendon's his best friend. Ryan drapes his coat over the back of the facing chair and sinks into it, picking up the cup and holding it under his nose.

"How goes the novel?" Brendon asks.

"Good." Ryan takes a long drink. "How goes the Pete?"

Brendon laughs and rolls his eyes, but his smile is pleased and almost secretive. "We're good. Better. We had a Talk."

"Must be catching."

Brendon raises an eyebrow and Ryan waves him off. It's still a little strange that Spencer would push and then let it go. Ryan's been waiting, in a way, for Spencer to say something or do something, but he hasn't and it's great, except for the part where it doesn't sit easily in his bones.

"It's just give and take." Brendon raises an eyebrow and smirks. "You know? I, apparently, need to calm down a little and he needs to talk more about his shit with complete sentences and not just free verse poetry."

"Good God." Ryan presses a hand to his chest. "I think you grew up."

Brendon flips him off, but he's laughing. "Yeah, well. I spend enough time watching you and Spencer, it was bound to sink in eventually. You guys are the poster children for healthy, gay, young adults in a committed relationship."

Ryan snorts. "You have really not been paying attention, then."

"Well, you love each other," Brendon says diplomatically. "The rest follows. Eventually."

*

In a shocking turn of events, Spencer is actually home when Ryan gets back. He looks tired, shoulders hunched inward, but he smiles when he sees Ryan, and his eyes go soft.

Ryan wonders how long Spencer's eyes have been going soft without him noticing. "Hey," he says, rubbing his palm along Spencer's shoulder. Spencer leans into it and tips his head back, and Ryan leans down and kisses him because he can.

"Mm," Spencer says when they break apart, flicking his tongue out to lick his bottom lip. "Caramel Macchiato?" Ryan grins. "Extra whip," he says.

Ryan's soaked to the skin, and he heads back to the bedrooms to take off his coat, not expecting Spencer to follow him, but pleasantly surprised when he does.

"So I was thinking," Ryan's trying to be serious but Spencer's smirking and his brows raise. "You sure you should be allowed to do that, Mr. Talented and World-Renowned Author? The plots of your books may get even more complicated."

Ryan tries to smile, but his stomach is tight, knotted. "I was talking to Brendon," he says, and Spencer nods, only nipping forward once, to kiss him. He's showing remarkable amounts of restraint, and Ryan appreciates it. "And he said when you love a person, there has to be a level of trust. You have to know that they'll catch you, no matter what. No matter how hard it is."

Spencer's smiling big and bright, and Ryan could get blinded by the force of something like that if he didn't get to see it all of the time.

"That's what I've been -- " Ryan leans forward and kisses him, cupping Spencer's face in both hands and just lightly resting their mouths together.

"I want you to be my person," he says, and there are butterflies attacking his insides, but Spencer's holding his hand, and smiling at him encouragingly, and Ryan can do this, he can.

"I thought I was your person," Spencer says, and Ryan rolls his eyes.

"In case anything ever happens," he starts, and Spencer's eyes lose some of their shine. He's still smiling, still holding on to Ryan's hand, so it's a start, but Ryan doesn't understand. He presses forward. "I want you to be that person they ask, that person that decides." The words come out in a rush. "I want it to be you, Spence."

He's not looking at Spencer, because he's scared, he's terrified, but he feels it when Spencer drops his hands, when Spencer starts to move away. Ryan's heart clenches.

"Spence," he says. "What?"

Spencer looks at him, eyes level but guarded, practically visible tension shaking his shoulders. He looks angry, almost, although that doesn't make any sense at all.

He clears his throat and stares down at his hands. He says, "No," and his voice is steady.

*

Spencer sleeps on the couch, he's gone in the morning when Ryan wakes up, and even though Ryan calls him every hour on the hour, Spencer doesn't pick up. He doesn't come home that night.

Ryan spends the day trying to write and deleting nine of every ten sentences he types. The words feel stilted even in his mind, where everything sounds better, and read as nothing less than meaningless tangles on the page. He even tries closing down his novel and working on a few short stories he has saved in fragments and pieces and does no better.

He calls Brendon twice and gets only voicemail. He's bad about charging his phone, especially when he and Pete are in one of their good phases. Ryan doesn't know if that's due to general forgetfulness in the glow of being happy or because he just doesn't care enough to really talk to anyone else. Either way, illogical as it is, it feels deliberate and Ryan almost throws his stupid phone against the wall.

Even William, who makes no secret of how much he likes Ryan, won't patch his call through to Spencer. "It's a busy day, Ryan, you know how it goes. He probably wouldn't answer even if I did and you know how Spencer sucks at checking his voicemail."

At midnight, Ryan's sitting on their balcony, smoking. He ditched the habit not long after he and Spencer got together, under the pressure of Spencer's technique of murmuring facts about lung cancer while they were fucking, which was more effective at killing the mood than any bucket of ice cold water being dumped on their heads ever would be.

He doesn't get it.

Which is worse than the actual fact of Spencer being upset with him.

Always in the past, or almost always, anyway, on the rare occasions they genuinely fought, Ryan knew exactly what he did or said or didn't do or say. It doesn't necessarily always lead to a logical solution because Ryan has an inner streak of pride and stubbornness that he can't do anything about, but the awareness helps.

Now, without that, Ryan feels like he groping in the dark.

The worst part is that he thought fucking hard about asking Spencer to shoulder that responsibility, however unlikely. They don't believe in the institution of marriage (or, well, Ryan doesn't and he's always assumed Spencer agreed. Which, when he gets Spencer home, might be one of those things they should talk about) but they are committed, a word Ryan hated for a long time until it became comforting.

Sappy as it is, he would perfectly happy to spend the rest of his life with Spencer and no other. Which, he supposes is marriage without the tux.

Fuck.

By two he can barely keep his eyes open and he's killed all but two of the half pack he keeps tucked in the bottom of a drawer for special occasions and high stress moments. He pulls his phone out and punches in Spencer's number, tucks it between his ear and shoulder and prays without conviction or hope for an answer he doesn't get.

"You've reached Spencer. I can't answer the phone, so leave a message and I'll get back to you."

Ryan inhales and exhales, grinds the heel of his hands into his eyes and flicks his cigarette away into the darkness. "Hey, it's me. Again. Look, Spencer, I'm sorry. I don't know what I did. Anyway. I'm sorry. Just. Come home please. Or call. Something. I love you. Bye."

He tries to sleep and ends up staring out the window until dawn.

*

Ryan's freezing, when he wakes up, which isn't all that surprising, considering he's fairly certain he fell asleep on the balcony. There's a blanket tucked around his shoulders which wasn't there when he fell asleep and a Spencer across from him he's not sure is real.

"Spence?" He whispers. "What?" In the dim light from the street lamps, Spencer looks exhausted, bruises ringed under his eyes, hair unkempt.

"I fucked up," he says, and Ryan sits up so fast he almost falls over. Spencer looks solemn as he stares down at his hands, and Ryan winces, because he looks so tired.

"You didn't. You were." He flails his hand around, but Spencer doesn't even crack a smile. "You're perfect, Spence. You're always perfect." His voice cracks during the last few words, and he feels like a kid again, staring at Spencer, begging for him to believe.

Spencer starts to rub at his temples, and Ryan's hit with a desire to hug him so hard he can't breathe from it. He says as much, and Spencer's smile is like something magical.

"How long have we been together?" He asks, and Ryan blinks, because out of the two of them, Spencer knows, Spencer has a small tattoo of the date on the base of his neck, but Ryan answers anyway, clearing his throat as he does so. "Seven years on August first, Spence, why?"

Spencer smiles again, but it's tight at the corners of his mouth and it feels forced. "I thought I wanted," he shrugs his shoulders in his very practiced, very Spencer way, like Ryan's just supposed to know what it means. Maybe he is. "I can't. I'm not the kind of doctor who has patients die every day, Ryan," he whispers grimly, and Ryan nods, because that he does understand.

"I know," he says, even though the point is moot. Spencer reaches across the space between them and laces their fingers together. His grip is light and Ryan squeezes, smiling as brightly as he can. His smile isn't like Spencer's though, he's not the kind to light up rooms.

"I can't watch you die," Spencer says, but he's not letting go of Ryan's hand, and if this were a movie, Ryan would be hearing the words in slow motion, the camera would be following Spencer's lips, because he has nice lips, the sad look in his eyes, and Ryan last, always Ryan last, because this is a break-up scene, and he's the jilted boyfriend.

He's freezing, and he tries to move, tries to get up, but the blanket is tangled around his feet and Spencer hasn't let go of his hand.

"Let go of me, Spencer," he hisses, but Spencer doesn't, holds him tighter, presses down hard enough that Ryan can feel the bones in his wrist grinding together. "Spencer." He hisses, and Spencer loosens his grip, but he doesn't let go, and despite the nap, Ryan is so tired. "I get it, okay. You like me now, but you don't want to grow old with me. Marriage is a fucking antiquated notion anyway, isn't it? Why not fuck when you're young and pretty and fucking nubile? You get gross when you're old anyway, and what's the point? We all die alone."

He's shaking, or maybe Spencer is. Maybe they both are. Ryan doesn't have a lot of experience with looking inside of himself for the answers, but his chest feels like it's being clawed open, and he can't breathe for missing Spencer, even though Spencer is still holding onto him, even though Spencer's less than five feet away.

"I love you, Ryan," Spencer whispers, and Ryan closes his eyes, because tears are starting to flow down his cheeks, catching on his lashes and tickling. "I fucking. I love you, and I can't lose you."

Ryan blinks. He clears his throat, and wipes at the mess on his face with the wrist of his free hand. "You're breaking up with me," he says, as clearly as he can without breaking out the sobs that are starting to rise up his throat. "I would say that implies a certain level of loss."

It's Spencer's turn to blink. He looks sickly, skin pale and stretched across his bones, across his skull, like he's unfed and malnourished, like he hasn't slept. "I'm breaking up with you?" He asks. There's a hint of hysteria in his voice.

"Isn't that what you're doing? Isn't that why you left? When I asked you to -- " He pauses, clearing his throat. "Isn't that what this is about? The seven year-fucking-itch?"

Spencer starts to laugh, although it's still hysteria-tinged. "Ryan. I can't watch you die because I love you, you idiot. I can't imagine living life without you in it." He stops laughing abruptly, and starts to shift. Belatedly, he seems to realize he's still holding onto Ryan's wrist. With one last squeeze, he lets go, moving awkwardly until he's on his knees. "I was going to ask you to marry me," he says.

He sounds hopeful.

*

He'd never admit it, but Ryan very nearly passes out.

"You want to what?"

Spencer, because he's Spencer, Ryan supposes, actually gets down on one stupid knee. He's still in his suit pants and shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and top two buttons popped. On his left hand he wears a class ring with a blue stone and pulls it off, twisting as Ryan's heart slams hard against his ribs. "George Ryan Ross, I want you to marry me."

Even a second time, Ryan still feels a lightheaded rush cascade over him.

He thinks he probably would have been less surprised, less feeling like he's going to fall over and die, if Spencer had asked if he was interested in a foursome with Pete and Brendon, with whips and chains, maybe some chocolate lube and candle wax.

Ryan stares. "I. What the fuck, Spencer?"

"I know." Spencer says, still hysterical, but it's half desperate and half laughing and Ryan wonders if it's possible he's being punk'd. There's no way this is what his life has become. "I know what you think about marriage, Ry. I've heard the speech a hundred times. I mean, it was probably the second thing you ever said to me at that party. It's an antiquated ritual supported only for land and title rights for the aristocracy and has no purpose in modern society and, in the end, it's nothing more than a piece of paper that you have to buy a lock box for in order to keep safe."

"Exactly." Ryan nods, running a hand through his hair. "That's exactly my speech and my feelings on marriage. Getting married. Oh, Jesus."

Spencer grins and scoots closer, holding onto the class ring. Ryan notes he has a line of pale skin on his finger and that shouldn't be endearing, but is. "But. But. There's always a but. Maybe it's not just that, Ry. Maybe it doesn't have to be just that."

"What else?"

"Maybe it can also be about wanting the whole fucking world to know that the person you love is taken and they can't have him. And that you're taken and they can't have you." Spencer laughs again, shaking his head. "I can't believe I'm doing this. Maybe, just maybe, it can be about showing what you feel. In an act and a ring and, hell, you're the author, Ryan, you can talk about symbolism better than I can."

The thing is, Ryan has always had certain expectations from his life.

The published author part happened, the awesome apartment happened, the fans and book signings happened and, in most ways, the image of what existence could be outside the Vegas suburbs has materialized into something tangible and good.

Spencer was a surprise. Love was a surprise.

Shit.

"Ryan." Spencer picks up his hand and Ryan, seriously, is a fucking girl. "Will you marry me?"

"I." Ryan huffs out a laugh. "Yeah. Okay. Yes."

*

Brendon says, "You're fucking what?" And spits his coffee out everywhere. Pete is quieter about it, arm wrapped around Brendon's shoulders, eyeing them closely. "Did Smith finally knock you up?" He asks, and Ryan can feel his cheeks burning red.

Spencer comes back out of the kitchen with three mugs of coffee (and a Red Bull). He's smiling, and Ryan really wishes there were video cameras in the house so he could capture the look on Spencer's face every second of every day.

He hasn't stopped smiling since.

"So when's the big day?" Brendon asks. He's leaning back into Pete's warmth, and Ryan's struck, as always, how together they look, one flowing into the other and back again, keeping each other steady and strong. Ryan's never noticed it before, and he wonders how that's possible, wonders what they look like to their friends, to the people who love them.

"We're thinking -- "

"August first," Ryan says, cutting him off. He can feel Spencer staring, and he cares, of course he does, but it's an important date, everything about them is important, but it makes sense, the rest of their lives will start on the day when they first did.

He looks at Spencer, parts his lips to say the words, but Spencer's looking a little watery, and when he smiles, it seems like he knows anyway.

"Isn't that kind of soon?" Brendon asks, and he looks puzzled, head tilted. "Why the fuck does that sound so familiar?" He asks Pete, but Pete just shrugs, even though he probably knows. Pete would. "Hey, Spencer," he says, and Spencer's idly tracing the date at the nape of his neck, Ryan can tell, even though the curtain of his hair is covering it.

"What?"

Pete just grins harder. "Nothing." and then, "I'm assuming we're the groomsmen, right?" From Brendon. Ryan tries to keep from smiling, but Spencer threads their fingers together idly, and Ryan can't. He just. It's not actually possible to keep it in.

*

They get married on August first on the roof of their building.

Ryan wakes up the morning of to Spencer sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed in his boxers, smiling like he's found the meaning of life, and holding a red rose. "Morning," he says, biting down on his lower lip and smiling and Ryan doesn't care that it's cliche. He really fucking doesn't.

"You're a dork," Ryan says, voice rusted from sleep, but he takes the rose and sticks it between his teeth.

They're getting married.

Ryan wears his green and black striped pants and a v-neck shirt. He keeps the bracelets he's worn since college since he feels naked without them and throws on, at the last minute, the gray fedora he wore the party they met at. It's kitsch personified, but they only invited fifteen people and some of them couldn't make it to a Wednesday morning wedding, so there won't be many witnesses.

Spencer picks khakis and a white button down, runs a hand through his hair and declares himself ready. "Much better than matching tuxes." Ryan socks him on the shoulder and laughs, presses his face into Spencer's shoulder and hides a smile.

Their friend from college, Nick (who ran off to London to play drums on the sidewalk for two years and then came back and became a music producer) agrees to officiate. He shows up in a black suit with a black shirt. "Is this priestly enough for you?"

Ryan rolls his eyes and gives him a one armed hugged. "You're missing the collar."

"Fuck, I knew I forgot something."

Pete and Brendon come in black jeans and their nicest hoodies, which Ryan actually appreciates. Out of curiosity, he spent a little time online surfing around for examples of commitment ceremonies and nearly had his eyes bug out of his head. He found cascades of white lilies and eight hundred guests and matching mint green tuxes and threw up a little in his mouth.

"How was your last night of freedom?" Brendon hands over a caramel macchiato and maybe, if Ryan weren't ass over tits for Spencer, he'd be okay with Brendon.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Spencer chimes in, nipping at Ryan's earlobes.

The wolf whistles make him blush, but it's worth it.

In the end, they stand on the roof facing each other with Brendon behind Ryan and Pete behind Spencer, a dozen of their very closest friends standing scattered beside them. (Spencer's parents couldn't make it and weren't pleased, but were soothed with promises of video and an assurance that it would be extremely, extremely small).

"Okay," Nick says. "Your vows, Spence."

Spencer takes Ryan's hands and smiles. It lights up his face and, God, Ryan will never stop wondering what he did to get so stupidly lucky. "I'm not great with words and I'm pretty sure I used them up getting us to this point. So. I love you. I've loved you for years and I'll love you every day for the rest of my life."

Ryan doesn't cry. Isn't crying. Fuck everyone.

"Ryan?" Nick says softly.

"I am good with words," Ryan says, to a smatter of chuckles. "And I still really don't know how to explain how much you mean to me. You're the reason for the best moments of my life and you've held me up for the worst and I love you. I wouldn't ever even think about marrying anyone else but you."

They kiss in the bright afternoon sun and Ryan wants to hold onto it forever.

*

It's not worth a night at a hotel, even though Spencer says they can afford it. He has patients in the morning, though, and they can go somewhere nice during the five days he has off in September.

Spencer says, "Sure?" and "Fuck, Ryan, I love you," when their handful of guests have left, and they're alone, Ryan pressed against the wall of their bedroom, Spencer's arms on either side of his head. Spencer's dotting little kisses everywhere he can reach and Ryan's skin is on fire.

"Y'feel good, Spence," Ryan mumbles, and he wants to blush. He's never been much of a talker in bed, never needed to be, appreciative grunts, because Spencer is gorgeous, but. But he wants to do this, and he'll have to convince Spencer of that.

Spencer smiles, nipping at Ryan's bottom lip. "I do my best."

Ryan shifts beneath him, reaches up and slides his fingers through the soft strands of Spencer's hair. Pieces of his bangs are falling across his eyes, so stupidly beautiful, and Ryan has, funnily enough, never been so certain of any decision in his life.

"I want," he says, lifting his head to kiss Spencer.

"Good." Spencer flicks his tongue out against Ryan's mouth. "I want you."

"No." Ryan huffs out a laugh. "I want you. Inside me."

"Ryan," Spencer says, "What?" He's blinking his eyes, and he looks so vulnerable, so vulnerable and so fucking young. It hits Ryan sometimes, in a very real way, that Spencer is younger than him.

"It fucking hurt, okay? It fucking hurt, and it was bad, but I was fifteen and he wasn't much older, and he didn't know what he was doing," he pauses, and very definitely looks into Spencer's eyes. "You know what you're doing, Spence," he whispers quietly. "You wouldn't hurt me."

Spencer closes his eyes for a long moment, thumbs sweeping restless arcs across Ryan shoulders. When he opens them again, a soft smile plays across his mouth and he bends down and kisses him. "You are such a fucking pain. Are you sure?"

Oddly enough, the answer is easy.

"I'm sure." Ryan slides his arms around Spencer's neck and pulls him down. "I married you, for Christ's sake. That was the scary part."

Spencer rolls his eyes, even as he's dislodging, even as he's walking backwards into the room and dragging Ryan with him. "What about, 'I don't like dick, Spencer'? Is it just because mine is so pretty?" His lips are quirking under his beard and Ryan reaches out and cuffs his shoulder.

"You're such a fucker," Ryan mumbles, and Spencer grins, is still grinning when he pulls Ryan close, mouthing across his temple, his cheek, his jaw.

"Yeah?" Spencer asks, and the mirth is bubbling straight out of him, he's about two steps away from giggling, and Ryan is pretty sure he loves him more than is reasonable. "You married me, Ryan Smith-Ross."

"Smith-Ross?" He mumbles against Spencer's lips. He can feel it when Spencer's skin starts to heat under his lips. "What," he whispers, flat and reverent as he starts unbuckling Ryan's pants. "Was trying it out."

Spencer eases his pants and boxers down over his hips, shimmies them off and tosses them away. Ryan shivers, from the echo of the name running through his mind and the ghost of Spencer's breath skimming across his skin. Spencer sits back on his knees, catching his fingers on the hem of his shirt and pulling it off.

"So pretty," Ryan exhales with a smile, dragging his nails over Spencer's thighs. "Spencer Smith-Ross."

"I don't think I'm ever going to get tired of that," Spencer chuckles, fumbling with his belt and popping his fly. Undressing is necessarily somewhat awkward, but Spencer makes it sexier than it would be with anyone else. "So, how do you want to do this?"

Ryan blanches and then tries not to freak out. Or, tries not to show that he's freaking out anyway. He's really kind of freaking out. It's more than a little ridiculous. "Um, I." He waves his hand around, hating that he's been reduced to petty hand gestures again.

"Ryan," Spencer says, calm as ever. He's never gentle, Spencer, not really, but he never hurts Ryan when he doesn't have to. "We don't have to. It's late, we can just -- "

"No."

Spencer rolls his eyes, but Ryan can see the remnants of a smile still tipping his lips. "Fine, you can fuck me. We have the next forty or so years for me to fuck you. Let me work up to that, yeah?" Ryan isn't scared. Spencer's making it like he's scared, and he's fucking not. He doesn't like dick, he doesn't, Spencer's is nice though, nice and thick and pretty and Ryan does want that.

"Hey. No." Ryan pushes himself up, curls a hand around Spencer's neck and pulls him in for a hard kiss. "I want this. And you want this, don't bother telling me that you don't. So. How do you like it?"

"I." Spencer licks his lips and smiles. "I like it on my back. So I can look at you."

Ryan kisses him again, hard and bruising and permanent, then slowly, deliberately, lies down with his arms folded behind his head. He can feel his heart hammering against his ribs, but he's sure. He wants it. He wants to see the look in Spencer's eyes.

They have lube stashed everywhere in the house, so it's no surprise that Spencer can snap his fingers and pull a tube of Wet from behind the pillow Ryan was leaning against. "Planned this, did you?" He asks, and Spencer just smirks as he slicks up his fingers, no preamble at all.

"It was a desire, yeah," Spencer says, and he still sounds calm, so fucking calm. "I always want you," he says plainly, and Ryan is absolutely not tearing up, but even if he were, Spencer is kind (and distracted) enough not to point it out.

"Spence," Ryan says, already half hard. Spencer grins at him, teeth flashing in the darkness. Ryan's expecting an intrusion, another press of Spencer's finger, maybe, and he practically jumps out of his skin when it's Spencer's mouth, instead. The wet stripe of his tongue against Ryan's skin.

The angle is very nearly awkward and Ryan is stupidly grateful he's always had better than decent natural flexibility; even so, in the face of Spencer's tongue trailing a heavy trail along the line of his ass, none of that seems to matter in the fucking slightest. He's got his legs hooked over Spencer's shoulders and, God, it must look ridiculous but it feels fantastic.

Thank God for that.

Spencer circles his hole and, very deliberately, presses down. Sparks shoot up Ryan's spine and he unthinkingly tangles his fingers in Spencer' hair, pulling just hard enough to feel resistance, but not enough to actually hurt.

Ryan doesn't have a watch, but he's pretty sure Spencer's down there for a hundred years, a thousand maybe, because he's become increasingly familiar with Ryan's insides, with the ticks that make him arch and moan, with his very essence.

"Spence," he mumbles, and his skin feels hot, feverish. His nerve endings are going to burst forth from his skin and then where will they be? Spencer swipes his tongue, fucking into Ryan again, and then, just as Ryan's moaning, just when he can't take it anymore, Spencer slides in a finger. "Oh god," Ryan practically arches off the mattress, because Spencer hasn't moved his mouth, either, both of them working together, and Ryan can't breathe from the sensation. "Spence," he practically screeches the word out. "Fucking please."

Spencer pulls his mouth back and lays a kiss on the inside of Ryan's thigh. "You can still change your mind," he says, sounding half wrecked. His voice is low and tinged with a growl Ryan hasn't heard before, one that sends something low and wanting shuddering through Ryan's body. "If you want."

Ryan's thought processes have been reduced to an incoherent string of more and need and want and the thought of Spencer stopping is unfathomable.

"No," Ryan gasps out, biting down hard on his lower lip. Heat is cycling through his body, pooling low in his belly and he needs, he needs so badly. "Please. Spencer, please."

Spencer nods, like the decision has been made. "Okay," he says, eyes trained onto Ryan's. Ryan wonders if his eyes look the same as Spencer, pupils blown, like he's been to hell and back and wants nothing more than to start back down that path.

"Love you," he whispers, pressing his lips to Ryan one more time, before moving up and pressing his mouth to Ryan's abdomen, circling his tongue around the cuts of Ryan's hips. "Love you," he whispers again, and then he slides in a second finger.

Ryan arches into Spencer's hand, which he didn't expect. Spencer's fingers have always been one of Ryan's personal favorite features, whether he's ever told Spencer that or not, and they feel strangely right easing in and out with the slick sound of lube in counterpoint to their breath. Spencer crooks his knuckles, brushes against something and suddenly Ryan understands just why the fuck people like this.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, keening and begging, and Spencer laughs, low rumble in his chest. "Good?

Ryan nods, and his moving his head so much he's afraid of a spasm in his neck. "Uh huh, Jesus, Spence, don't stop." He's perfectly aware that he's whining, he just doesn't care much, reaching a hand down and moving it frantically up and down his cock. He feels like he's going to explode out of his skin, and his hand isn't enough, nothing is enough if it isn't Spencer.

Spencer stops. Spencer says, "Seriously?" And if Ryan were anywhere but where he is now, if Ryan weren't stretched open and willing, making ridiculous little keening noises in the back of his throat, if Ryan weren't begging for it, he would blush.

As it is, he grinds his hips down against Spencer's hand and says, "More."

The first slide in with three is almost too much, stretch and burn and intrusion, and he must make some kind of sound, because Spencer slows, but doesn't stop, and gives him time. It's entirely possible that Spencer is some kind of saint moonlighting as the love of Ryan's fucking life for shits and giggles. He peppers the skin of Ryan's inner thigh with light kisses and flicks on his tongue. "So fucking unreasonably pretty."'

Three becomes almost easy, Spencer fingers sliding in an out, brushing against that spot every now and again, and Ryan has started to leak. "Spencer, need you. Now." He puts as much force behind the words as he can and if it comes out desperate instead, no one can prove anything.

Spencer nods and pulls out his fingers. Ryan quite possibly makes a disconsolate noise and Spencer smiles, adjusting Ryan's legs over his shoulders and settling better. "I love you," Spencer says, "So fucking much," and pushes in.

Ryan is pretty sure that if he'd known it was like this, feeling Spencer so close, Spencer closer than anyone had ever been before, he would have demanded they do this sooner. As it is, Spencer's panting against his shoulder as he sinks all the way inside, as he sinks home and Ryan nearly blacks out from the feel of it.

Spencer's name becomes a litany of sounds that are ripped from Ryan's throat, SpencerSpencerSpencerSpencer over and over again until Ryan's not quite sure he's being heard. It doesn't matter though. Spencer seems to be reading his mind as well as his hands read Ryan's body.

He shoves in and pulls out, and Ryan loses track of time, loses track of everything that isn't Spencer, everywhere he can reach. He wonders, fleetingly, if it feels like this for Spencer. He goes to answer, to open his mouth, only to find it already open, a string of moans and broken sobs falling past his lips.

Ryan comes with a cry, spine snapping taunt and arching off the bed. It feels ripped out of him, walking a line between euphoric and almost painful, compounded by the fact that Spencer isn't stopping the piston of his hips. Spencer's hands are tight on Ryan's sides, tight enough that he knows there will be stripes of bruises left there in the morning.

"Ryan, fuck," Spencer grits out, eyes open as wide as they can go, pupils blown and beautiful in the dim light. "I. I'm going to."

In the years they've been together, they've done a good chunk of everything. Handjobs and blowjobs, in private and once or twice in public; they've come on each other and in each other, but they've never done this and Ryan wants it all in one single moment.

Spencer comes.

*

In the morning there are scones and coffee, a note on the pillow next to Ryan in Spencer's ridiculous doctor's handwriting, and his laptop on his lap, whirring happily and plugged into the wall. These are all things Spencer would have done on a regular morning, but it feels different now, weighted by something else, and Ryan smiles like an idiot when he looks down at his hand, when he catches the ring glinting in the sunlight.

Spencer comes home for lunch, and Ryan hasn't moved much, hasn't even gotten dressed, just moved the tray with the food (decimated to crumbs and the coffee drunk) and pulled his laptop on his lapdesk, typing furiously.

"Well if it isn't the wifey," Spencer drawls, and Ryan rolls his eyes as he brings a hand up to scratch an itch at his neck, getting distracted by the glint of his ring again. He's grinning like a loon, but he can't actually help it, and he grins brighter (if that's possible) when he catches sight of Spencer's own ring, sitting high on his finger.

"Hey yourself," Ryan murmurs, moving over to give Spencer more space as he starts to undo his cufflinks, setting them on his side of the dresser. Spencer starts to unzip his pants and Ryan's eyes go a little wide. "The sun is still out," he says, almost inanely, checking the clock at the top of his laptop's screen. "And Bartleby here tells me it's only noon. What are you doing, Smith-Ross?" He giggles, he can't help it. "Your lunch break is not that long."

Spencer grins at him, and something tightens and loosens in Ryan's chest all at once. "Took the afternoon off," he says, and Ryan can feel his eyes practically bugging out of his head.

"You did what?" He tries not to sound too incredulous, but he can't help it, and Spencer's down to only his shorts when he climbs into the bed.

"Hi," he says, tipping Ryan's face closer to his. Ryan tries very valiantly not to moan, and fails kind of miserably.

Somehow, his laptop ends up on the beside table, desk on the floor and Spencer across his hips, fingers tangled in his hair, kissing him slow and easy and deep. "Love you," Ryan exhales and, yes, he's said it and he said it before they got married, but it has a new weight in his mouth and new lingering sweetness in the air.

Spencer pulls back and smiles. "Love you too." He links their fingers, and Ryan closes his eyes against the light exploration of skin against skin.

He's happy.


End file.
